THE BLog

Cynthia Leitich Smith Interview

Fellow YA author Cynthia Leitich Smith does a great service to the writing community: Not only does she pen some terrific reads, but she also takes the time to interview young adult authors on her blog and help promote their books! How generous is that? Hell, I’m a slacker — you don’t see me promoting other people’s books on my site, do you?

So, reward Cynthia: Buy her books!

Oh, and she interviewed me about Fanboy and Goth GirlCheck it out.

Heroes defies TV “gravity” and stays strong

Let’s be honest — it would be pretty damn near impossible for Heroes to get better than it was last week. “Company Man” combined action, tear-jerking emotion, and plot twists galore to make what may have been the most perfect hour of television since the first season finale to Twin Peaks. Or, at the very least, since Lost‘s season 1 episode “Walkabout.”

So, the fact that Heroes managed to keep the story moving without losing momentum or feeling like a letdown from last week’s ungodly good episode (so described because clearly the production team sold their souls to the devil to produce that epi…and it was worth it) makes Heroes damn near…uh, heroic. They’ve kept the tension ramped, the emotions running high, and the interest piqued.

Good job, folks.

But, uh, April 23? Really? I really have to wait that long?

Sigh. OK. But only because I’m addicted. Otherwise, I could take this needle right out of my arm, I could…

Lost Didn’t Suck Last Night

After last week’s pathetic Jack episode (in which it took an hour for us to learn that Jack got a tattoo in Thailand and is conflicted…hmm), I had pretty much given up on Lost. I figured that if the show was that befuddled as to how to bring back viewers, then I didn’t care for it anymore.

But I watched last night because, well, because it’s still Lost, after all, and I wanted to give it another shot.

Glad I did.

I’m not going to say that “Tricia Tanaka is Dead” was a return to form or anything, but it was at least a step in the right direction. Every major character (except for Jack) got at least a moment of camera time and a line of dialogue. Multiple sub-plots advanced. Hurley’s quest to start the Dharma mini-bus was vaguely reminiscent of Season 1’s golf-course-building exercise as a device that is absurd on the face of it, but fun and moderately understandable. These are people who are trapped on a frightening island — they need to blow off some steam, otherwise they’d all be stark raving insane.

Jin, Sawyer, Charlie, and Hurley were all well in character.

My major quibble is the existence of the bus in the first place. Someone is now going to have to explain why this thing even exists on an island that is supposedly under quarantine, where the inhabitants are supposed to be in the hatches. And what was it doing out in the middle of the jungle? How did it get there and how was it turned over?

Unfortunately, one good episode does nothing to restore my faith that such questions will ever be answered. Hell, we still don’t know how Yemi’s plane got from Nigeria to the island, and given that Eko’s dead, I doubt we ever will.

Still, the focus on multiple plots, the return of character-based humor, and the fact that the flashback actually seemed to matter on a character and plot level all made the episode worthwhile.

So, you’ve earned another week from me, Lost. Don’t waste it…

Why Writers Care

The other day, I happened upon a negative comment about a friend’s book. It wasn’t really a terrible comment, truth be told. It was just sort of a nebulous, wishy-washy dismissal. Nothing that would send you (or me) to the bathroom for a bottle of sleeping pills, but I couldn’t help but to wince for my friend and hope that she wouldn’t come across it, too. (I would have warned her off, but let’s face it — morbid curiosity would have compelled her to look eventually. Hell, I would have, were the positions reversed.)

This did cause me to muse, however, on the notion that artists do not or should not care what other people think of their work. I’m not quite sure where this idea came from or when it started. I suppose on the surface it seems reasonable and maybe even self-evident. Writers, musicians, actors — all those who work under the heading of “artist” are supposed to be above this sort of thing. It’s the WORK that is supposed to matter. If some guy on the ‘net doesn’t like my book, why should I care? I create ART! The opinions of the masses aren’t supposed to matter to me. I am supposed to exist on some transcendent plane, some apotheotic realm where I am so consumed with empyreal issues that I don’t have time for the fleeting thoughts of mortals.

Well, bullshit.

I mean, very few people create art in a vacuum. Wait, let’s back up. That’s not really true. A lot of people actually do create art in something approximating a vacuum, but very few of them create it FOR a vacuum. You’ve got Emily Dickinson, but that’s the only one that jumps to mind immediately. Most people who create art do it in a solitary fashion, but for the purpose of exposing it to the world, and exposing the world to it. That’s the whole PURPOSE of art. If you stuff your poems in the sock drawer, Emily, you’ve amused and enlightened yourself and that’s it. If art is holding a mirror up to reality, then what good is it to shove that mirror under your bed, where no one will ever see it?

So we create art specifically so that other people will see. We want them to see it. And we want them to have a reaction because — again — otherwise what’s the point? If you go to all that trouble to hold up that big, heavy mirror and then haul it outside and no one notices or cares, then what have you accomplished?

Not much.

So we make art to show to others in order to evoke a reaction. Once you’re that far down the road of sharing with the world, you can’t HELP but to feel the impact (good and bad) of people’s comments and criticisms.

Because let me tell you something…

Da Vinci and Michelangelo cared what people thought of their work. They HAD to. It was their livelihood. Shakespeare sure as hell cared. Dickens had to keep fans coming back for each new installment, just like a soap opera. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle brought Holmes back from the dead just to shut up the rabid readership. Poe cared to the point that he drank himself and drugged himself to death because no one could recognize his genius. John Milton…

Well, OK. He probably didn’t care. At least, not when it came to Paradise Lost. Exception proves the rule and all that.

Even poor old Emily Dickinson cared. She cared so much that she freaked out at the idea that people might not like her work or might mock it, so she stuffed it away and we all got to read it after her death, poor thing.

What do we take away from this? Well, that writers not only do care, but also should care. That doesn’t mean that we let our fears and concerns prevent us from tackling certain issues. Rather, it means that the (perceived, anticipated) reaction of the reader can act as a goad, compelling us to produce our very best work. Hell, it can compel us to produce at all! Many friends of mine have quoted to me that old writer’s complaint: “I hate to write; I love having written.”

I would modify that to “I hate to write; I love having written; I adore being read.”

And being read brings with it all of Hamlet’s slings and arrows, all the outrageous fortune. It’s an occupational hazard. It’s a pain in the ass. But never, ever pretend it doesn’t matter. I don’t buy it.

Literary vs. Popular

I recently attended Seton Hill University’s Writing Popular Fiction residency as a visiting lecturer. Since I was only teaching one class, I had a lot of free time, which I used to sit in on other folks’ classes and see what was being taught to this particular crop of writers.

Dr. Mike Arnzen taught one session on “The Theory of Popular Fiction.” As part of this session, he had the class make lists of characteristics of popular fiction and a counterpoint list of characteristics of literary fiction.

It was interesting to see some of the prevailing opinions amongst the students as to the differences between the two, and of course the point of the exercise was to show that, ultimately, literary and popular fiction actually end up sharing more characteristics than one would initially think. Mike made a terrific observation, though — namely, that the ultimate distinction between the two may be that literary fiction is interested primarily in appealing to our intellect and reason, whereas popular fiction is concerned with emotions and generating pleasure.

But here’s something I’ve noticed over the years, something that is typically the major difference between the two: In popular fiction, people are attractive.

No, seriously.

In popular fiction, the main characters are always attractive. The antagonists are usually pretty good-looking, too, but if not, that’s OK — they’re the bad guys, after all. The good guys are always good-looking, unless there’s some sort of deliberate story element that requires them to be ugly, but that’s quite rare.

In literary fiction, it’s POSSIBLE for the main characters to be attractive, but it’s just as likely that they’ll be seriously flawed in terms of physical appearance. And the writer will absolutely DELIGHT in telling you this. In Wonder Boys, for example, Michael Chabon is very happy to repeatedly mention the narrator’s amazing girth over and over again. (Of course, when the book was made into a movie, they cast as the corpulent college professor…Michael Douglas.)

This observation probably ties into Arnzen’s idea that popular fiction is predicated on providing pleasure — after all, wouldn’t you rather read/think/fantasize about attractive people rather than people who are unattractive or just plain NORMAL?